Reflection: What New Version of Myself Am I Growing Into?

I’m growing into a version of myself that doesn’t confuse survival with identity anymore. For most of my life, I thought the strongest part of me was how much I could endure. How much I could swallow. How quiet I could stay while my world burned around me. I mistook endurance for holiness. Silence for strength. I thought being “good” meant being small enough not to rock the boat, even when the boat was sinking.

But the woman I’m becoming?

She’s done shrinking to fit inside other people’s comfort. I’m growing into a woman who understands that healing is not pretty. It’s not aesthetic. It’s not soft candles and gentle music all the time. Sometimes healing looks like rage rising in my chest because I finally realize how much I was robbed of. Sometimes it looks like grief revisiting me out of nowhere—while folding laundry, driving past a familiar street, watching my children laugh—and realizing I’m grieving the version of me that never got to be a child.

I’m growing into a mother who is brave enough to break cycles instead of pretending they never existed. A mother who feels the fear of repeating the past and chooses awareness instead of denial. I’m learning that stopping generational trauma isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being present. About apologizing when I mess up. About choosing softness without weakness. About protecting my children’s nervous systems the way no one protected mine.

I’m growing into a woman who no longer lives chained to trauma bonds.

Who no longer believes love has to hurt to be real. Who is unlearning the lie that she has to earn safety by being useful, obedient, or invisible. This new version of me is learning how to sit with herself without distraction. Without chaos. Without needing crisis to feel alive. And that part? That’s terrifying. Because peace feels unfamiliar when you grew up in survival mode. Stillness feels loud when you were raised in noise. But I’m staying. I’m not running from the quiet anymore.

I’m growing into a woman of faith—not the fearful, rule-bound kind I once thought I had to be, but the kind that trusts God enough to bring Him her anger, her questions, her doubts, her grief. The kind that believes God is not disappointed in her healing process. The kind that knows Jesus isn’t asking her to be silent—He’s asking her to be free. I’m growing into someone who lets herself be seen.

Not the curated version. Not the “I’m fine” version.

But the real one. The woman with scars still tender to the touch. The woman who cries and keeps going anyway. The woman who is still becoming—and isn’t ashamed of that. I’m not blooming all at once. I’m sprouting unevenly. Awkwardly. Wildly. But this time, I’m growing in the direction of light. And maybe that’s the truest version of me yet.

CLOSING PRAYER ✨️

God,

I don’t fully recognize the woman I’m becoming yet, but I feel You in her bones. I feel You in the way my spirit leans toward light even when fear tugs at my heels. Thank You for growing me slowly, for not rushing what still needs tending. Thank You for honoring the parts of me that survived and gently calling me into something more. Help me trust this becoming. Help me release the need to bloom all at once. Remind me that growth doesn’t have to be loud to be holy. If I get scared, stay close. If I doubt, speak softly. And if I forget who I am, remind me whose I am.

Amen.